


past the sea, past the sky

by antagonists



Category: Tekken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 13:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: At the lakeshore, instead of the legend’s white deer, sits an immortal.





	past the sea, past the sky

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes, Hwoarang will sail south just before autumn ends.

 

There is war up north, now, setting golden plains ablaze. Temples asunder; war and iron and honor. Perhaps he will step into battle when the worst of winter clears and the seas are safe to sail again. He knows war. He knows not its reasons.

 

In warmer months, Jeju is a rough swell of black ash and stone and forest over the seas. Without its colors, the island is but a quiet, blank slate marked darker only by mountains and frozen falls. His motive is without design; Hwoarang is here on a whim, chasing, chasing and chasing. (Perhaps running).

 

He dislikes the silence.

 

Hallasan stands tall and white before him, hellfire gone still, silenced by time. Proud and solemn like his master. Lonely—like his master.

 

He has trodden through the forests and land here before, knows the paths by heart: which loose stones to avoid, which trees serve as the nearest village’s landmarks, where the water flows, and where the juiciest berries ripen in spring. The one difference is that the only footsteps he hears are his own, loud amid the unforgiving catharsis of winter. Even the chatter of the locals is hardly enough a distraction, and he leaves early the next morning despite his chilled bones.

 

This high up the mountain, he cannot tell the difference between ground and sky—everything is so white. He is not afraid although a wiser man would be.

 

Hwoarang walks forward blindly, hands clenched into fists though he cannot feel them. He knows of the myth, the one of the white pond and its white deer, and of those who have fallen into its depths and never returned. He does not expect to find anything unusual when he reaches the lake, thinks to himself that he will perhaps offer his master prayers and well wishes; he’ll spend a cold night under the stars before walking down the skies once more.

 

At the lakeshore, instead of the legend’s white deer, sits an immortal.

 

Hwoarang is shivering under all his clothes, whether it be from the cold or something akin to fascination. It is getting late, and he’s tired and likely not thinking rationally, so Hwoarang merely stares a moment before trudging closer and sitting by the fire. The flames are odd, colored more like an early morning sky and young lotus than deep ember. At its core is a wooden talisman, unburnt. Perhaps it is just his mind playing tricks on him; the air here is thin, and he has not quite slept properly in days.

 

The man’s eyes are closed, dark ink marking his cheeks like shadows at sunset. He seems to be meditating, so still that Hwoarang could almost mistake him for a statue. Just a moment more, and Hwoarang might have reached out to run a finger along that nose. He has never liked statues much; their unchanging serenity bothers him.

 

“People do not venture this far during cold months,” the man says, finally opening his eyes. They glow just as brightly as the snow and sky around them.

 

“Those would be the locals,” Hwoarang says, shifting close to warm his hands by the fire. “I’m from the mainland.”

 

Those eyes flicker. Something like the glimmer of a sword, the passing glint of an arrow. Something like the arc of a falling torch. “You flee the war from the north.”

 

“I’m not _running_ ,” Hwoarang says, though he realizes now that is probably exactly what he’s doing. “How do you know of the war?”

 

The man taps his forehead. Hwoarang looks closer, catches a glimpse of a third eye hidden behind black hair. He isn’t quite sure that it can actually see him, yet is unsettled all the same. He has never been one to pay much mind to the folktales meant to scare misbehaving children, but maybe this is one of the demons the messy paintings are meant to depict.

 

“Why are _you_ here?” Hwoarang accuses, observing how the water by his feet ripples, thawed by devil-may-care flames. It offers silver, offers a reflection. “You probably scared the deer away.”

 

“It tends to come around dawn,” the man says.

 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

“From the same sea,” is the simple response. “Different mountains.”

 

After a few seconds of silence, Hwoarang flinches at the sound of wings, eyeing how the man stretches black feathers far and wide. It is almost as though a storm cloud has intruded upon the frosty tranquil. When Hwoarang continues to stare, the man tilts his head thoughtfully.

 

“Jin,” he says, offering his name. There are deep scratches on his horns, scars on his bare hands. Remnants of past triumphs. Hwoarang is acutely aware of the thrill lancing down his spine, past all the damned cold and his shallow, clouded breaths. Black is bad luck. Black is imperviousness to darkness and fear. He is familiar with this. “You came here to mourn.”

 

“That doesn’t concern you,” Hwoarang says, more snappish than he had intended to sound.

 

“There are ways to bring people back,” Jin continues, stretching out one hand to the skies. He curls and flexes his fingers, and for a moment they look like bloodied claws. “Especially during war. There’s always enough blood in the soil.”

 

“No,” he says, deliberately ignoring at how Jin looks at him. The longer Jin stares, the more inhuman he seems—eyes of moonlight, wings of night, and a devil’s knowing, wicked smile. “What, do you start wars just to satisfy wishes like that?”

 

Jin goes quiet at this. It’s a brooding sort of quiet, one that makes Hwoarang wonder if he is actually exchanging conversation with a creature of war. He traces something into the snow by his side, then blots its out with a violent sweep of his hand. His third eye glitters like a jewel. Hwoarang thinks it looks quite akin to a fresh wound, one poisoned to leave red grief exposed to the air.

 

(He would not be surprised. There are gods borne of despair and resentment. A god of madness is as good as any to the desperate).

 

Even with the time that has passed, the pale flames have not diminished. He looks closer at the character carved carefully into the wood. _Eight_.

 

“Offer still stands,” Jin says, staring Hwoarang in the eyes. “The war will end soon.”

 

“I’m not yours to take,” Hwoarang glowers, warm enough to feel the dig of nails into his palm. And the demon grins, beckoning him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [hallasan legends](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hallasan)  
>  hwoarang's name was most likely (im like 1000000% sure) inspired by the itf's 8th (red rank) [hwarang-tul](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Taekwon-Do_Federation), which is named after the silla [hwarang](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hwarang). this applies to baek's name as well (dosan-tul)


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